


Bat!John

by MojoFlower



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Bat!John, Bat!Lock, Batjohn - Freeform, Fluff, Gen, Johnlock Roulette, Rampant adorableness, Scientist!Sherlock, there really is no excuse for this
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-02-03
Updated: 2013-05-09
Packaged: 2017-11-28 03:12:11
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings, No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 2
Words: 5,236
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/669622
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/MojoFlower/pseuds/MojoFlower
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>What it says on the tin.  Sherlock Holmes was a scientist obsessed with recombinant DNA experiments.  Next up:  bat and human.  Using DNA from the recently deceased Capt. John Watson, Sherlock wound up with something cuter and more meaningful, and ultimately more successful, than he had anticipated.  I don't know what happened, y'all.  Saw this picture last night, and BAM!  Bat!John.  May be followed by a Bat!John Raven!Lock chapter, when I'm done with my genie!lock story.</p><p>**Inspired by <a href="http://batjohn.tumblr.com/image/41858796106">this lovely art</a> by <a href="http://ivorylungs.tumblr.com/post/41857996829">IvoryLungs</a></p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

Sherlock leaned carefully around his microscope and squeezed out .03 microliters of solution into the petri dish.  It would vaporize over the next six hours, and hopefully that would do it.  He had faith in his research, and his calculations had been meticulously checked and double checked.  He cast a quick eye over the cell recombination presently occurring under the 120x magnification lens of the microscope.  Perfect.  
  
He stood and stretched, feeling four lumbar vertebrae pop back into alignment as he twisted his back.  He’d been at this impromptu kitchen version of a lab bench for... hmmm.  Had it really been 39 hours?  Suddenly concerned, he whirled around and darted back into his darkened bedroom, leaving the door widely ajar to catch the kitchen light.  
  
The wire cage on his dresser still contained its tiny captive, properly upside down, hanging from thankfully living feet. _Nyctalus noctula_ , more commonly known as the Greater Noctule, the largest species of bat to be found in London.  Even so, it was smaller than the palm of his hand, a miniature creature, weighing only 32.64g after it’s last meal of moths (18 hours earlier), with a wingspan of 35.46cm.  He was an agreeable fellow, still groggy with semi-hibernation.  It had been a simple matter to wander Regent’s Park, find an appropriate tree, and pluck the specimen from among his sleeping companions in an old woodpecker hole.  Really, it’d been ridiculously easy:  Sherlock would have gone to much more trouble and expense.  
  
The DNA Sherlock was using for his recombinant experiments was from a recently deceased army officer.  The military had DNA on file for all their soldiers, but Sherlock thought there’d be less fuss if he ‘borrowed’ from someone who couldn’t complain about it afterward.  Of course, since he had taken a sample of the stored DNA without anyone’s knowledge or consent, that was unlikely to happen in any case.  
  
He returned to the kitchen to get the petri dish, settled it on a heating pad that maintained a consistent 21.5C (which would adequately vaporize his precious solution), balanced the wire mouse cage over it (litter tray insert removed, so the gasses could get through), and covered the entire thing with a glass bell.  He made sure the seal was tight, and then went to prepare himself a much needed cup of tea.  Six hours.  Enough oxygen to maintain the hibernating bat, so he wouldn’t have to worry about that.  He sat at the foot of his bed, drew his knees up into the circle of his arms, and rested his chin on them.  His notebook was ready at his side.  Now, nothing to do but wait and observe.  
  
There was no noticeable difference after the six hours.  Sherlock was neither surprised nor disappointed.  Cell metamorphosis took time.  This was only the catalyst.  Hopefully, change would coincide with spring, when the mostly sleeping bat would liven up.  He stroked a finger thoughtfully across the fragile thing, feeling the aggressive heat it generated, the soft bristle of fur, the insubstantial bones and velvety wings.  “I’ll call you John,” he said.  Naming it after its DNA donor, Capt. John Watson of the RAMC, seemed appropriate.  
  
Over the next month, the thatch of hair on the crest of the bat’s head lightened, until it was an ashy brown, almost blond.  Thirty eight more days passed and Sherlock recorded the regression and flattening of its snout, noted sharp teeth filling in and becoming more blunted.  The facial area lost hair, revealed skin smooth and golden.  Teeny, pinprick black eyes widened, changed to deep blue, and migrated closer to the now distinctly human nose (which, although perhaps a bit large, Sherlock thought unique and personable).  The single digit the bat had originally begun with, a “thumb” at the final joint of his wing, now had been joined by delicate clawed fingers, forming a tiny brown hand which was quite dexterous.    
  
Sherlock’s fascinating new chimera would stir every few days, and he was scrupulous about keeping a good supply of moths available.  However, as its features shifted, so did its diet.  Sherlock had to provide a variety, not quite sure what would take.  Fruit, rice, leftover takeaway, even bacon all seemed to be acceptable to the changing bat.  “John,” Sherlock reminded himself, finishing up with his notes for the day.  “John.”  
  
John looked up from the corner where he crouched, eyes bright and ears twitching.  He stuffed a last piece of curry into his mouth and crawled to the front of the cage, climbing swiftly up the bars to look at Sherlock.  
  
“You know me, don’t you, John,” Sherlock said smugly.  Part of his protocol was to handle his experiment frequently, sometimes as often as once per hour, to encourage familiarity.  Since it was still rather sluggish, he had no qualms about leaving the cage door down when the bedroom was secure, as it was now.  John pulled himself through the opening and stared solemnly back at Sherlock.  
  
Sherlock held up his finger in what he hoped was an inviting fashion.  “Come on, then John.  Don’t delay.  Come investigate if you’re curious.”  
  
John gave him a very _human_ look, and in a flurry, launched himself across the room.  He was clinging to Sherlock’s finger in less time than it takes to describe it.  His little palms were _hot;_  his whole body radiated heat, and Sherlock questioned the efficiency of a metabolism that expelled that much energy.  He brought his arm slowly up in front of his face, until it was close enough that each exhale ruffled the blond hairs on John’s head.  
  
John remained relaxed.  He released Sherlock’s finger with one dainty paw and groomed around his mouth, hair and ears until he felt satisfied that he was clean.  His eyes only left Sherlock’s when obscured by a passing forearm.  Sherlock used his other hand to gently pet along the bat’s back.  “You’re so strong, John,” he said.  He’d become accustomed to speaking aloud over the past few months, keeping the bat company and noting its progress.    
  
“You look so delicate.  Well, you _are_ delicate:  your bones are like toothpicks.  But you’ve a perfect design.  You’re fast, your hearing is among the most sensitive in the animal kingdom, you can shift momentum with no delay, fly against a strong wind....  A flying mammal.  You’re evolutionary perfection, is what you are.  Or, at least... _now_ you will be.”  Sherlock indulged in no false modesty about his own skills as a researcher and scientist.  “A flying mammal with a human brain.”  John emitted one of the high trilling noises that was part of his repertoire.  It sounded almost like birdsong;  and although Sherlock’s face remained expressionless, his eyes reflected a smile.  
  
“Go explore, then.  As you seem to be waking up for the spring.”  He gave his finger a courteous shake and John took off, careering erratically around the room.  Sherlock snapped off the desk lamp and lay back against his pillows.  Now the room was dark, except for a dim sliver of light through the crack in his curtains.  He couldn’t see anything, but John was clearly doing just fine.  
  
The soft fluttering continued to sound from rapidly changing points, and Sherlock could just barely discern the high pitched squeaks as John mapped the room with echolocation.  Sherlock lowered the pillow and curled on his side, making mental notes, since he could neither see to observe nor to write.  After an hour or so, the flapping paused, and faint scratching noises indicated that John was on the blanket near Sherlock’s elbow.  The trill came again, and Sherlock huffed.    
  
“I’m glad you’re happy, John,” he murmured, a very deep, vast counterpoint to the bat’s thin soprano.  Little pinpricks heralded John’s arrival on his dressing gown sleeve, and the miniature beast crawled up his arm to his shoulder, trilling and clicking, feather-light.  Sherlock actually laughed, when it reached his hair.  “It is a good thing I do not subscribe to those old wives’ tales regarding bats and hair,” he whispered.  John emitted a series of short, staccato cries, and nipped sharply at Sherlock’s ear.  
  
Sherlock grimaced and gently cupped his hand around the tiny body.  It stilled, but didn’t struggle, and allowed him to fold it in his fingers and carefully pull it out of his hair, stretching curls straight before they bounced softly back.  A lilliputian heart trembled under Sherlock’s fingertips, and he brushed the contented little bat against his lips before carefully releasing it onto the pillow next to his face.  
  
John crept forward and stretched up to rub his nose against the philtrum under Sherlock’s own, paws pricking on the bow of his lip.  Then he settled down on the pillow near that mouth, cozy and snug in the flow of sultry breath and soothed by the company.  After all, he was accustomed to having a clan tightly packed around him.  Sherlock stroked him, comforting and calm, and they both drifted off.  



	2. Chapter 2

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Another chapter. For this one, I have to give a nod to[ Trashyfiction ](../../../users/trashyfiction/pseuds/trashyfiction)who commented in the last chapter, “ _I want wee little batJohn clinging to Sherlock's hair at crime scenes, and at first Lestrade thinks Sherlock's just unkempt, and then he's like 'Wait, have you got a_ bat _on your head?!'”_ And so... here you have it. (No illustration for this chapter, but feel free to jump in there, if you're inspired!)

“Sherlock!”

They raced beside the Serpentine in Hyde Park, heavy footsteps thudding after them.  Sherlock breathed deeply and evenly, the practiced breaths of a distance runner.  John could clearly hear his heart, pounding with exertion but not panic.

John fluttered and darted close to Sherlock’s head, emitting a constant stream of shrill clicks, mapping the eerily dark park as they ran.  It had to be coincidence that the power had failed in this quadrant at such a crucial moment.  The small-time dealers they had been tracking couldn’t possibly have engineered that. They had, however, with a kind of dumb cunning, been quick to take advantage of those first chaotic moments of darkness, when every lamp had flickered out with a sharp staccato _snap_ , and had turned the tables on Sherlock, reversing the object of the chase.

John’s grasp of human expression had been steadily growing over the months since his transformation (along with language, although his voice was thin and squeaky), and he recognized the emotion pumping out of the man running just below him as exhilaration.  He rejoiced in that, and wheeled suddenly, urgently, upwards, doing a quick loop, checking on their pursuers at the same time.  They were closing in on his Sherlock, one of them using his phone as a flashlight in the pitch dark park.

John focused on his mental map.  Strategizing came naturally to him, something Sherlock attributed to the Army Captain portion of his DNA.

“Sherlock!  There’s a branch coming up: _duck_.”  Sherlock stooped, but didn’t even slow his pace, so much faith did he have in his tiny companion.  They had been together for over six months now and had a very tight bond.  Sherlock was unfazed by running blind, relying completely on his chiropteran companion.

“There’s a side path through the trees coming up on the left.  I can read a little grotto back there. Start slowing down... that’s good... slow some more, ok, here we go - turn left!  Just a fast walk now, ok?” And thus John directed Sherlock to the rocky overhang of a deep, convoluted grotto manufactured and forgotten about a 100 years earlier.  John mapped it out, greeting the few bats who remained within:  those old or sick, or newly made a mother.  He guided his human into a concealed crevice, and didn’t quit hovering until his charge settled into a crouch, knees pulled to chin in a preferred pose.

John landed in his hair, and Sherlock reached up with a gentle hand, fumbling over his form until his forefinger found John’s back.  He stroked meditatively, an action he’d quickly and irretrievably incorporated into his repertoire of thinking aides.  It was surprisingly more satisfying than cigarettes.

“Have they passed?” he murmured, in a vibrating undertone, barely vocalizing.  Sherlock knew better than to whisper, which was hissing and sibilant and much more likely to carry.  

John trilled softly at the caress, letting his eyes droop closed, enjoying the warmth and pressure of Sherlock’s finger against his back massaging between his wings.  He cast out for echoes.  Through the trees he could “see” the three men, clustered in a circle, gesticulating.

“They’re still at at the head of the path,” he murmured, directly into Sherlock’s ear, little hand holding the shell of it to better his aim.  Sherlock shivered.

“Thank you,” he replied.  “Can they see if I use my phone?”

“I don’t think so,” John said.  “Will you be texting Lestrade?”

Sherlock didn’t answer, but took out his phone.  

“Wait,” John tugged lightly on Sherlock’s ear. “Let me go check.”  He let go of the curls, smelling sweetly and familiarly of his Sherlock.  He rubbed his face in them, just for a fraction of a second, as if their silky texture would fuel his flight, and then took off, wings making a pattering sound as he swooped through the trees to observe the thuggish trio.

They were arguing.  John’s very human eyes could see their expressions from the light of the phone-flashlight.

“We ‘aven’t lost ‘im,” one in a hat said angrily.  “ ‘e’s still running.  Why ‘ave we stopped?”

“Because, you bleeding arse,” the smaller man snapped, “There’s a fork in the path here.  He could have gone either way.”

“How could he have seen that?” argued the third.  He was panting heavily, grossly overweight and greasy with sweat.  “It’s fucking dark.  And he didn’t have a light.”

“Huh,” the small man peered down the side path.  It was true, the path was very narrow, and twisty.  It would have been very difficult to navigate in the dark.  His forehead wrinkled, as if reason were painful.  “I’ll go this way,” he said at last.  “You lot keep on to the Brook Street gate.  Call me if you find him.”

Fatman and Hatman jogged away.  Their headlong rush had lost a lot of momentum, John noted.  Especially now that the leader was walking through the undergrowth and couldn’t see them anymore.  John watched him step cautiously through the dark, hand shielding the light of his phone in order to remain concealed, and frowned.  Littleman was surely the group’s brains, such as they were.  He zipped up and flew quickly back to the grotto.

“One’s headed this way.  I don’t want you trapped.  Follow me through the woods, alright?”

Sherlock had been texting, phone under his shirt to mask the light.  He rose immediately.  He couldn’t see John, but he could hear the flutter, and looked in that direction.  “Lead on.”

John landed in his hair again, twittering, clinging to curls and collar.  He directed Sherlock deeper into the woods, away from any paths.  It was tricky business, as he had to maneuver around brambles and over brush and debris in addition to ducking around low branches.  He never faltered, though, and John finally had him stop.  “Stay here, and let me check things out,” he said.

He flitted up, and darted back to the path.  Littleman had found the grotto, and was suspiciously checking it out.  John roosted silently on the ceiling, sensing his progress through the clicks bouncing back, painting a vivid aural picture.  The man gave up and left, swearing softly, and jogged back down the path.  John dropped from his perch and flipped right side up, zipping back to where he left Sherlock.

Sherlock wasn’t there.  Damn fool.

John skimmed through the dense woods, not sure which way his idiot human would have gone.  It took an seemingly endless 5 minutes of spiraling loops to locate him, running on the main pavement again, using occasional flashes from his phone to keep him on track, steadily gaining ground on Hatman and Fatman.  John dropped to his hair, hanging near his ear.  “Didn’t I tell you to wait?” he scolded.  “Do you have a plan?  Or are you just going to take on two men at once?”

Sherlock made an offended noise.  “You don’t think I can?” he challenged.  “It won’t be difficult.  And Lestrade should meet us at the gate shortly.”

Ah.  So he _had_ been texting Lestrade.  “Well, I think you’re an idiot not to wait for backup,” John admonished.

Sherlock grinned, John could feel it through the backward shift and lift of his ear.  “I _have_ backup,” he said.  “I have you.”

John felt pride at that, and although he knew he’d just been baited, he couldn't help rising to the challenge, an excited thrum in his chest at the thought.

Sherlock ran carefully now, bouncing lightly on his toes, noiseless on the pavement, and reached the men he’d been chasing..

John launched forward to angle his attack from the front, and flew directly into Fatman’s face, thinking to take out the larger opponent first.  He scooted in, sharp little claws ready, and scratched across his eyes and the soft underside of his nose before spinning off.  Fatman shrieked, high pitched and unmanly, staggering to a stop and flailing his hands in front of his head.  John was too fast for him, obviously, and wheeled around to check on his partner.

Sherlock had already tackled Hatman, bringing him to his knees, and the pair were now rolling on the grass next to the path.  The soft thud of fist meeting flesh was a grace note balancing the grunts of the two men, as each struggled to gain the upper hand.  Fatman noticed, and threw himself into the scuffle, just as John landed on his hair and bit him sharply on the ear.  Yelling again, Fatman fell on the pair on the ground, rather than whatever he had planned.  However, the fall of a 250 pound man is as effective as other forms of martial arts, and the threesome froze in pinned, breathless shock for a moment.

John took the opportunity to dart in again, sinking sharp teeth into Fatman’s other lobe, which achieved beneficial results in that he thrashed his way off the impromptu dog pile, swatting around and shouting “ _Demon!_ ”, allowing Sherlock to hiss in his first breath since being crushed.

Sherlock was on top, and started to sit up on his quarry, but had to arch back to avoid clawed hands that were aimed at his eyes, but instead scratched down one high cheekbone and left bloody rails to the bottom of his throat.  He responded by pushing off, rising almost magically to his feet, and kicking the man unceremoniously in the temple with a sharp toed shoe.  Hatman crumpled as if boneless, a dark silent heap on the grass.

“Sherlock, ‘ware,” John called, as Fatman recovered his equilibrium and swung menacingly towards Sherlock, sweat glinting, directing a ham-handed fist that glanced off Sherlock’s shoulder as he spun away.  The big fellow lunged in pursuit, bellowing, and John hung overhead, trying to find an opportunity for attack between the rapid pinwheeling of the man’s arms.

Sherlock neatly balanced on one leg and kicked, high, thudding his heel hard into the man’s chin and knocking his head back, but he didn’t fall.  He jabbed rapidly at the clumsily lumbering man, catching him now in the solar plexus and now in the throat.  The criminal’s breath gurgled distressingly after the final blow, and he dropped to his knees.

“John,” Sherlock began, and John could hear the adrenaline and smug pride in his voice.  But before he could complete his thought, there was a soft noise behind him.

The leader had arrived.

John swooped in the air, crying “Sherlock, the other one,” and plummeted down to attack his face like he had the fat one.  

Several things happened at once.  

The man flung his fist out, probably aiming for Sherlock, but actually hitting John full force by sheer unlucky coincidence.  Sherlock had already leapt at the man, so that John, tumbling in an arc from the force of the blow, was propelled directly into his hair.  The man aborted his forward rush, startled at having knocked something out of the sky;  and John caught at familiar strands of hair as the world dipped and spun insensibly around him.

He held fast, dizzy, trying to orient himself and not entirely sure what just happened.

Sherlock locked his hands around the leader’s neck and pushed both thumbs brutally into the soft hollow of his throat, holding him at arm’s length.  “If you move,” he said, voice cold, “It will go the worse for you.”

Illustrating why he was the brains of the operation, Littleman made the wise choice to go quite still.

At that moment, the park lights suddenly popped back on with a soft crack, illuminating the scene and blinding John, who ducked his face behind Sherlock’s ear.

Footsteps pounded down the sidewalk and resolved themselves into Lestrade and Donovan, both shouting, “Police!  Stand down at once!”

Sherlock didn’t release his hold on the short man’s neck until Lestrade had secured handcuffs around his wrists and had him kneel on the pavement.  Donovan had already cuffed the fat man;  and Hatman, still wheezing, was beginning to stir, groaning and swearing.  Donovan  walked over and pushed him back down with her foot, obviously enjoying her power.  “Lie still, creep,” she said curtly.  “Roll over, and hands behind your back.”

As Sherlock stood, recovering his breath, John began to filter sensation, and it wasn’t good.  He clung to his usual perch with one hand and both feet, but one wing burned with a jagged, consuming pain, and his stomach roiled with incipient nausea.  He opened his mouth to pant, trying to suppress the urge to vomit, and attempted to use echolocation to find out what was going on, but he couldn’t yet.

Lestrade looked at Sherlock, frowning.  “Sherlock!   What were you thinking, taking on three thugs on your own?  You’re an idiot.”

“I texted you,” Sherlock said haughtily.  “I knew you’d be along in a moment.  And they offered no challenge, really.  I’ve certainly sparred with better.”

Littleman spat angrily to the side, and Sherlock turned to nudge him disdainfully with one Italian shoe.

Lestrade stepped closer as Sherlock’s head turned, the four bleeding tracks clawed from cheek to collarbone shining black in the light.  “Here, Sherlock, those scratches look septic, and your hair’s full of leaves,” and he reached for Sherlock’s head.  Sherlock ducked away, not wanting to be touched, and John threw out his uninjured wing, to keep his balance.  Lestrade choked on an inhale.  “Oh, _shit_ , Sherlock:  I think there’s a _bat_ on your head.”

“Yes, Lestrade.  I’m glad to see your powers of deduction are so sharp.  You continue to be a credit to the Yard.  Of _course_ there’s a bat on my head.”  Sherlock put his hand up, cupping it protectively around John.

John sucked in a pained breath as his injured wing was pushed and moved and gasped, “Sherlock.  No.” in a raspy voice.  Sherlock stiffened to attention and immediately pulled his hand back.  “John?” he asked.  “What is it?”

John fought to keep his voice even.  “My... wing...”

Lestrade said, “That thing is _not_ talking.”

Sherlock ignored him (his denial was absurd and didn’t merit a response, since that “thing” was, demonstrably, talking) and flattened his hand carefully under his ear.  “Here, John, let me see.” John loosened his grip and slid down his lock of hair until his feet touched a hot palm, allowed himself to sink to his knees and brace himself with his good hand, injured wing trailing, burning pain, behind him.

Lestrade gawped silently, and Donovan had joined the crew.  Even the criminals were staring and silent.

Sherlock ignored them all with his typical majesty and brought John around, slowly enough not to jostle, until he could see him in the light.  “Ah, yes,” he murmured.  “Definitely broken.  When did this happen?”

And simultaneously Lestrade said, “Fuck _me_ , Sherlock.  What the... It has a fucking _face_.”

And Donovan said, “Nothing more than I’d expect from the Freak.”

John leaned against the considerate wall Sherlock created with his fingers, sweat glistening on a face that was rather more green than the sodium sidewalk lamps could account for.

“It’s bad,” Sherlock said, holding John steady with his forefinger on his chest, registering that the rapid pitter of his heart was increased by half again, the physical proof of discomfort.  As if the toothpick sized bone jutting through a leathery wing weren’t evidence enough.

“Yeah,” John tried to laugh.  “I’d figured that out for myself, thanks.”  But talking was hard, air seeming to have left his body, and his brows knit in a pained expression.  He wrapped his uninjured wing around Sherlock’s finger, drawing solace from its well known contours, tiny fingers digging into the loose skin of a knuckle.

Lestrade came close, encroaching on Sherlock’s space but carefully not casting a shadow over John.  He let out a low, disbelieving whistle.  “Sherlock... what _is_ this?”

Sherlock stared at Lestrade from narrowed eyes.  “This is John,” he said abruptly.  “My backup, actually.  He was quite helpful in the fight.”

John, whose dark blue eyes had adjusted to the light, looked up at the gray haired DI and grimaced.  “Nice to meet you,” he said, and nodded his head tightly.

“Oh my god,” was Lestrade’s only response.  And Sally said, “Now there are _two_ freaks,” but she said it in wonder.

Sherlock curled his left thumb protectively around John’s right, uninjured side, holding him stable and whirled away.  “Well, I’ll be leaving you with this lot, then,” he said as he walked away.  “That ought to cut down on petty drug peddling in Hyde Park, then.  These idiots comprise the entire ring you’ve been trying to catch, Lestrade.  Surely you can take it from here.”

“Sure.  Okay.  Thanks.  Sally, call it in,” said Lestrade, distracted from his job by the tiny impossibility cupped in Sherlock’s hand.  That bat... _thing_... was preposterous, surely.  With it’s human face and hands, with the distinctly human shock of golden brown hair on it’s head.  But the care Sherlock was displaying towards it was remarkable in and of itself, and hitherto unseen.  “What are you going to do?” he couldn’t help asking.

“Go find someone to set this wing, of course,” Sherlock growled, already nearing the next pool of lamplight.  If Lestrade responded, they were already too far away to hear.

As Sherlock strode for the park gate, he pulled out his phone and rapidly texted, one-handed, not even slowing down.  John grinned a little at his haste, but fully supported it, as even with the careful cushioning and shock absorption of his hand, each step jolted fire that ran from his shoulder through his guts, and John had to close his eyes and just breath against the nausea.

Sherlock’s phone rang, and he growled in annoyance as he moved it to his ear.  “A text would have sufficed, Mycroft.”

The voice on the other end was muffled, but John, with his excellent hearing, could still clearly make it out:  “Now, Sherlock.  This is the first time you’ve requested a high security clearance vet.  What’s going on?”

“None of your business,” Sherlock retorted childishly.  “I just need a vet that won’t talk.  Surely you’ve got one amongst your minions.”

“Tut, tut, brother,” Mycroft chided.  “I’ll direct you to one;  when and if I think your need is valid.  Now, again.  What is going on?”

Sherlock snarled, and his fingers involuntarily tightened, so that John gasped and pushed at his thumb with a tiny hand.  Sherlock immediately checked his stride and ran assessing eyes over John, not missing the green cast and clammy sweat on his face.  He looked torn, but only for a moment.  “It’s John, Mycroft.  He’s a bat.  And he’s been injured and needs immediate attention.  It’s _important_.”

There was silence on the other end, not even breathing.  Then, incredulously, “You have a _pet bat?_ ”

Sherlock huffed.  “If that’s how you want to think of it, fine.  It’s an experiment.  He’s a...” his stormy eyes lingered on John again, “...friend.”

“A friend,” Mycroft said in a wondering tone.  “You know, most people get dogs.”

“Mycroft--!”

“Ahem, yes,” there was an edge of laughter and disbelief in the brother’s voice.  “I’ll set it up and text you the address.  Good luck to your... John.”

Sherlock disconnected without saying thank you or goodbye, and dropped the phone in his pocket.  He slipped the hand cradling John inside the opening of his coat, close against his chest.  John relaxed a bit, enveloped in the warmth and familiar smell, concentrating on the strong thud of Sherlock’s heart instead of the pain.  John closed his eyes and fought his private battle, no longer focused on what Sherlock was doing, although he did vaguely register the lurching movement that accompanied flagging a taxi, and the peculiar silence inside a vehicle.

If the vet was surprised to be roused and sent to her clinic in the middle of the night, she made no mention of it.  She did say, “I’ve never actually worked on a bat before, just so you know.  And certainly nothing... like this,” to which Sherlock responded with a glare, pulling John closer to his chest in a protective gesture.  “It’s alright,” she said soothingly.  “I’ll just sedate him now and then we’ll get x-rays.”  

She moved to pick John up, hand looming large over his head, and he couldn’t help but flinch.  Sherlock’s unoccupied hand shot out and grabbed her wrist, stilling the approach.  “I’ll hold him until he’s out,” he said firmly, and John relaxed again.

“I have to weigh him,” she said, “to determine the sedative.”

“He was 36.84g on Tuesday,” Sherlock said.  But the vet gave him a _look_ , and Sherlock had to lay John, as gently as a leaf, on the scale that was usually used for measuring out medications.  To both of their immense satisfactions, he was 36.84g, just as Sherlock had said, and John was still wearing a faint smirk when the woman gently slid a needle under his skin.  “This should do it,” was the last thing he heard.

 

He woke up later, in the dreamy, dozy haze of sedatives and painkillers, to find himself nestled again in Sherlock’s hands, left side numbed and stiff.  The strobe of passing streetlights meant they were in a taxi, probably on the way home.  He stirred a little, and Sherlock, who had been absently petting his belly with his finger, looked down, face bizarrely striped by dried blood.  “You’re back,” he said softly.  Not feeling inclined to speak, John lifted inquisitive eyebrows.  

“Compound fracture of the humerus,” Sherlock reported. “A clean fracture to the head of the scapula, and associated muscle and tendon damage.  You’re splinted up tight, and will have to keep your wing immobile for a minimum of 6 weeks, likely longer.”

 _6 weeks_ , John thought in some dismay, but his mouth wasn’t receiving motor messages from his brain very well, so he hoped his eyes said enough.

Sherlock flashed a brief suggestion of a sympathetic moue.  “I know it’s a long time.  We’ll find a way to make it work, I assure you.  You won’t be _bedridden_.”  John smiled at that, and turned his head a little to rub his cheek against the callused fingerpads beneath him.  Sherlock carefully tucked his hair around large, triangular ears, and resumed stroking his soft, furry companion.  

“There’s a new experiment I’ve been wanting to try,” he mused.  “Your wings are so _practical_.  I’d quite like a pair myself.  I’ve been considering tinkering with raven DNA.  I think while you’re recovering would be the perfect opportunity.”

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> End note: I'm not taking the bat!John stories as seriously as my others, and so the update schedule is random, just as the Muse strikes me. The Muse for Chapter 3 is inspired by this [lovely picture ](http://mcpippins.tumblr.com/post/41846300342/flight-lessons-with-raven-lock-and-and-itty-bitty) by [MCPippins](http://mcpippins.tumblr.com/).  But for now I’m marking the story as complete, because each chapter stands on its own. Um, maybe subscribe if you want to know when another bit is released? Also you can follow me on **[Tumblr](http://mojoflower.tumblr.com/)** (my _very_ NSFW blog), where I announce stuff like that.


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